


A Simple Favour

by sansaswildlinglover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Wakes & Funerals, alright more than vaguely, but I ended up giving it my own twist anyway, vaguely inspired by the eponymous movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-06 00:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: "Brotherfucker!" Margaery gasps with an elated smirk that makes her look more amused than scandalized."I did not fuck my brother!" Sansa whispers insistently, painfully aware of the heat flushing her cheeks and the rapid blinking that betrays her lie."Half-brother," she shrugs."No," she objects. "I didn't.""Swear it on your father's grave," Margaery counters.





	A Simple Favour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wightjon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wightjon/gifts).



> A late birthday present for Elizabeth! <3

Alayne curls up against the armrest of Margaery's sofa, pretending to listen to her friend chattering away about the latest town gossip and her brother's wedding guests as she's mixing daiquiris. Margaery joins her, offering her one of the drinks before draping herself over the couch cushions.

Alayne takes a cautious sip of her drink. It's stronger than she'd personally prefer for an afternoon drink, but still reasonable considering Margaery's tendencies.

"Uncle Luthor called this morning," Margaery continues her story. "He said he couldn't make it. Can you imagine that? A  _day_ before the wedding! Loras was livid!"

Alayne hums in agreement and glances up to find her friend staring at her over the rim of her own glass.

"What?" she blinks.

"You seem absent today," she points out. "What's wrong?"

She takes a breath and another sip to steady herself. "It's just," she begins, sitting up. "It's been eight years today since my dad passed away."

Marge moves a little closer, reaching out to pat her thigh. "Aw babe, you should have told me. Would you like to go out to take your mind off things?"

"No, it's okay," she tries to assure her friend, faking a smile and nodding emphatically.

"You want to talk about it?"

 

 

 

The only thing Sansa still recalls from that night was how cold and tired she was, and the waiting. She must have been waiting for hours. She doesn't know what normal twenty-one year old women do when their cars break down in the middle of nowhere late at night, but Sansa had called her dad.

Ned Stark never made it to the place where her engine had given up. A ghost driver crashed into his car only five miles from the spot where Sansa was waiting for him, killing him instantly. The police officers responding to the call had been the ones who found her. 

 

 

 

Margaery reaches for Alayne's hand when she's finished telling her the story. "It wasn't your fault, sweetie."

She knows that now, but it's taken her the better part of the first five years after to convince herself it wasn't.

"I used to think it was," she confesses. "It took me a long while to..." She lets her explanation trail off, not ready to go into that dark place she used to inhabit. 

Margaery nods, her eyebrows knitting together with concern. 

"I was not a good person back then," she adds for some inexplicable reason. "I did some really bad things..."

Marge sits back, crossing her legs and looking at her like the human incarnation of the eyes emoji. "What's the most fucked up thing you've ever done?"

 

 

 

Cat sighed loudly. Sansa looked up from the sink. Her mother had been scrubbing the same plate for five minutes and Sansa had been half expecting it to shatter in her hands from the force she was using. She dropped it into the soapy water now, and sighed again.

Sansa sucked on her teeth, an annoying habit she'd picked up from her sister since she'd moved back home. It was better than biting her tongue, and she didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing to her mother.

"What is he doing here?" she asked suddenly. "We haven't seen him in years, and he suddenly decides to show up at your father's funeral? He must be up to something."

Sansa knew Jon didn't decide to show up out of the blue. It had been Arya who'd sent a text to let him know about their father's accident. 

“He’s just here to pay his respects Mum. I’m sure it’ll be fine," she said flatly. She couldn't muster the energy to fake any kind of emotion.

She ignored the uneasy stirring deep in her stomach. She couldn't afford to examine it right now and allow it to pierce through the armour she’d drawn up around herself over the last few days.

Deep inside of her, there was a pit of emotions that left a sour taste in her mouth and a hollow feeling in her chest if her attention drifted to it during a quiet moment. She'd had to pull herself back from the edge the first time. She couldn't break down now. Her mother needed her, her sister and brothers needed her.

She still had some of the pills left the doctor gave her when she broke up with Joffrey. The pills helped, it was easier to keep up her protective shield of numbness, and even if some unwelcome thought managed to slip past it, she could almost brush it off as if it meant nothing.

***

Sansa had been twelve the last time she'd seen her half-brother Jonathan Dayne. Perhaps it had been silly of her to expect him to look anything like the gangly fourteen-year-old boy with shaggy hair and knobby elbows and knees she remembered, but seeing him waiting outside the sept had been somewhat of a shock to her.

He looked like her dad, more than her other brothers, and yet he didn't. He was younger obviously, shorter and leaner. Like her father, he had a beard, and the same long solemn face, but his eyes were darker, and her father had never worn his hair this long. 

His curls were pulled back into a bun, and Sansa hadn't realized she thought that was an attractive look on a man. When she caught her own eyes travelling up and down his body, appreciating how good he looked in his black suit, it hit her it wasn't the hair she found hot, but Jon himself.

 

 

 

Alayne stares into her drink. "I know you're not supposed to think your own brother is hot?"

She's not sure how she meant for that to come out, but that uncertainty makes it sound like a question, and she doesn't want Margaery to think she wants absolution or even worse, approval, so she tries to correct herself.

"I know, I know, I really do, but I did— I mean, I couldn't help it— it just happened!"

Margaery arches an eyebrow. "What happened?" she purs.

"What—no! that's not— I just meant..." She resists the urge to cover her hot cheeks. "Nothing!" 

"Nothing," Marge repeats, taking a dainty sip of her cocktail, casually brushing some hair away from her face. 

She bites her lip, the grip of her fingers on her glass tightening. If Marge keeps this up, she might tell her everything. "After the funeral, we ended up talking all night and then we... we kissed," she hears herself confess.

Margaery doesn't miss a beat. "And?"

Alayne stares at her. She'd expected her friend to be shocked, surprised, disgusted. Anything but this completely unnatural mix of not being fazed at all and barely concealed curiosity. She decides to ignore it. 

"I know I shouldn't have," she starts babbling. "It's gross, so gross. Can you—

Marge interrupts her. "So you kissed your half-brother. Did you like it?"

She can't answer that.

"You did!" Margaery squeals in delight. "And?" she repeats.

"And what?" Alayne asks.

"There's more." It's not a question.

"No."

Marge smacks her lips. "Mhm."

"There's not more," she insists.

"There is," she counters, and before Alayne can deny it, she adds: "You fucked him."

Alayne lets her mouth fall open, the sharp jerk of her head comes almost naturally. "What!?"

"Was he good?"

She's not answering that question.

"Brotherfucker!" Margaery gasps with an elated smirk that makes her look more amused than scandalized.

"I did not fuck my brother!" Alayne whispers insistently, painfully aware of the heat flushing her cheeks and the rapid blinking that betrays her lie.

"Half-brother," Margaery shrugs.

"No," she objects. "I didn't."

"Swear it on your father's grave."

She can't.

 

 

 

"Are you sure it's alright if I stay here?" Jon asked. "I don't think your mother wants me anywhere near this house."

"Don't be ridiculous," she told him, glancing up as she laid down another pillow. She'd add more, but he was arching an eyebrow at her, a doubtful scowl etched on his face, and suddenly she felt bad for lying to him.

She bit her lip, busying herself with straightening the duvet. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

"Don't be," he sighed. "I can't blame her for not wanting me here, especially not now."

"You have every right to be here," she pointed out. "And none of  _that_ was your fault."

She kept her back to him, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the sheets on the bed. She could feel his eyes on her, and she was afraid to meet his gaze with the odd current she could feel in the air around them.

She turned to look at him, and she caught his eyes quickly flitting up to her face. She must have imagined that. For a moment she thought he'd been checking her out, but she must have been wrong. For the brief second she'd believed it, she'd actually liked it, and that was even worse.

She needed to get out of this room. Tomorrow he'd be gone.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and she averted her eyes. "There you are," she told him, glancing up again to find him staring at her.

"Thank you, Sansa," he said, offering her a smile, and his deep voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Why did his eyes have to be so dark, making her feel all warm and feverish, and too tight inside her own skin? She'd been so afraid of feeling something, she hadn't realized how awful it was to be numb all the time. Jon made her want to feel things again, and standing so close to him, the air thick with tension, she didn't even have to try.

She closed the distance between them, telling herself she was only going to hug him, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he leaned in as she tilted her head up, and their lips met.

It could have ended there— it should have— if one of them had pulled away, but when they tried to part, somehow they ended up even closer. She tangled her fingers into his hair, pulling it free from its tie, and he rested his hands on her hips, where their warmth seeped through the fabric of her hoodie, his touch burning into her skin.

He deepened the kiss, and she was starting to lose herself in the taste and feel of his lips. His hands slipped under her hoodie and she helped him take it off. 

She wasn't sure how her trembling fingers managed to undo all the buttons on his shirt, but suddenly she was pushing it off his shoulders, her hands gliding back and forth to feel the muscles in his chest and arms. 

The rest of their clothes ended up in a pile on the floor, and they found their way onto the bed, Sansa on her back and Jon hovering over her with his weight braced on his forearms.

He left a trail of kisses down her jaw and took a moment to suck on her neck, before rasping into her ear: "Tell me what you want."

She guided his mouth back to hers, pulling him in for another kiss. "Make me feel good," she murmured against his lips.

His mouth travelled down and a low moan escaped from her lips as it closed over her nipple. He circled the bud with his tongue, flicking it into hardness, before pulling back to blow hot air on it. His mouth was already moving on to her other breast, but he quickly cupped the abandoned one with his right hand, shifting so he could push his tigh into her core.

All the while her hands explored his muscled back, always ending up in his hair, fingers tightening, pushing and pulling him closer. He groaned and gave her a long lick up the swell of her breast. 

He left a trail of kisses down her stomach and settled between her parted thighs. Looking up to meet her eyes, he started stroking the insides of her thighs with one hand, knuckles brushing her lips, before flipping it and slipping one finger into her damp heat.

“So wet,” he groaned, holding her gaze as he licked his finger clean. She was sure she was about to burst out of her skin.

A heavy breath escaped from her lips when he licked up her slit, once, twice, and tongued at the senstive skin between her holes before slithering back up to her clit. He circled it tentatively and closed his lips over it. 

He slid his hands up the underside of her thighs, grabbing her ass to squeeze it to the rhythm of his mouth sucking her clit. She fisted a hand into the sheets underneath her, carding the other into his hair again to encourage him. 

"Please," she begged him. Somehow she knew he'd give her exactly what she needed. And  _gods_ he did. She'd never cum so hard before. Rainbows danced behind her closed eyes. Pleasure rippled through her body and her mouth fell open in a soundless cry.

She didn't want to come down from her high. She didn't want to give common sense or reality a chance to ruin this, so she pulled him up and wrapped her legs around his hips, encouraging him to push into her.

She could have cried tears of joy at the sensation of him stretching her open. He filled her up so perfectly.

"You feel so good," he groaned, crushing his mouth to hers. His beard was soaked and he still tasted of her. She could only agree. It felt so good and she couldn't allow herself to think how wrong this was. 

"I love your cock," she moaned. "Please, fuck me harder."

He grabbed her hips and obeyed eagerly. 

 

 

 

"Are you still in touch with him?" Marge wants to know.

Alayne used to be a good girl. She suspects Margaery thinks she still is. But she's not. She hasn't been for a very long time. Some things are easier to confess than others. But lying comes easy to her now.

Alayne Snow never had a brother,  half or otherwise, but it's easier to pretend she did. 

"He died," she murmured. "Another car crash."

She knows Margaery won't doubt her story,  will not ask her to elaborate. The irony of it is wrapped up in too much tragedy for people to question it.

"Does your husband know?"

Her teeth start sinking into her bottom lip,  but she catches herself. 

"Of course not," she tells her, making a face suggesting she's questioning Margaery's sanity for even entertaining that possibility.

The doorbell rings then, and Alayne purses her lips to suppress a smile. _Saved by the bell._

Marge's house keeper answers the door and they're joined by Alayne's husband.

Margaery leaps to her feet, throwing her arms open to welcome him. "Jon!" she almost squeals in a feigned delight that is so Margaery it makes Alayne roll her eyes with a fond smile. "We were just talking about you!" she informs him.

"Only good things, I hope," he mutters. His jaw is tense and he clears his throat as he throws Alayne a quick glance. 

She knows Marge is wearing the smile that still makes him uncomfortable, even without seeing her face. Marge has a way of smiling that makes you feel like she's undressing you with her eyes. It would annoy her, maybe even make her a little jealous, if she didn't see Margaery directing that same smile at her almost on a daily basis.

"Of course, darling," Marge reassures him. 

Jon nods and leans in to give Alayne a quick peck on the lips. 

She smiles up at him, biting her lip. "How was your day?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," he shrugs. "Are you ready to go?"

She turns to Margaery. "Yeah. I wish we could stay, Marge, but I need to pick up my dress. We'll see you tomorrow!"

They say goodbye to Margaery and walk out to Jon's car. Ten minutes into the drive he asks: "What was that all about? You already picked your dress up yesterday."

"I did," she tells him, licking her lips. "I need you," she whispers, and the way his eyes darken at her words sends a thrill through her body.

"Pull over." She guides him to an abandoned dirt track on the right side of the road. She crawls into his lap and thanks the gods she's wearing a skirt. It's going to make this a lot easier.

She tangles her hands in his hair to kiss him and his own glide up the sides of her thighs, disappearing under said skirt. He moans into the kiss and she starts rubbing herself against his growing erection.

It takes some fumbling, but they manage to get rid of his belt and unzip his jeans. She slips a hand between their bodies to wrap her fingers around his length and he bucks into her grip.

She helps him shove his jeans down, and his fingers push her panties aside, spreading her wetness as she guides him to her entrance. They both groan in relief when she sinks down on him. 

She rides him in his car seat. It's uncomfortable and it's hard to find a rhythm, especially with the way she's scraping the skin on her knees and she keeps bumping her head. But he's inside of her and his fingers are rubbing her clit. They're tangled up in a mess of limbs and hungry kisses. And it's more than enough for her to find her release. 

He follows quickly after, crying out her name. Her real name. 

He gathers a fistful of hair between his fingers to guide her lips back to his for a sloppy kiss. "Sansa," he repeats, groaning it into her mouth.

"You shouldn't call me that," she reminds him, bumping their noses together.

"I know," he sighs, cupping her cheek. "But it's just you and me here, baby."

She closes her eyes, resting her forehead against his, and whispers: "Yes, just you and me."

Let Margaery and the rest of the world think she's a good girl. She's still a disgusting brotherfucker, and she knows she should be ashamed of how far she's gone to make sure they can be together. But how could she, when being with him feels right, and so, _so_ good?


End file.
